My brain is struggling today. I've had hours to get a bunch of writing done, and my progress is pitiful.

I'm fighting the temptation to quit everything, buy an RV, and spend every penny of my savings just taking my kid on a driving tour around the country. Or skipping the RV and flying to Tuscany instead. Or taking a cruise to Japan. Or anything other than the daily munande and required tasks that are supposed to matter yet seem so meaningless today.

Hearing of K.D. Wentowrth's passing troubled me deeply. She taught me a lot about writing. I'll never forget her advice to "mutilate the cows" on the first page. She had a wicked sense of humor. She's one I wish I had known better, had spent more time with. But there was always next year.

Does it make you a grown-up to have finally internalized the fact that there is a horribly limited supply of next-years?